Sometime in the past I’ve read something that triggered me to write: Writing is easy if you have something to say.
Then how can I possibly explain the fact that I have so much to say but words decline to be malleable for my own intent? I know for a fact that I’m never one to be concise about ideas, opinions or points of view and at risk of unmasking personal conceit I would confidently say that I always somehow manage to ply the accurate idiom for a selfish purpose. Language has been a submissive tool. I shape them into anything I want them to be. I command declaratives and they oblige, hesitantly, to satisfy my egotistical perversions.
Now they have adopted resilience. They have knocked over the flask of freedom sending shards darting in every direction. They have regained their power rendering me incompetent of one sensible train of thought. In the event that I seem to have coherent strings of thoughts they begin unraveling like ancestral pearls snapping, sending every bead towards hurried private departures. It is distressing to wonder how words have finally dodged my grasp leaving me fumbling for proper phrases. I cannot seem to articulate the waves of mixed emotions assailing me, plaguing the alternating currents of wakefulness and dreaming. Afternoons glide into evenings and evenings float towards midnights and their injuries are not appropriately mourned for they lack words to distinguish their woes.
It is convenient to shroud myself with an excuse. And I am aware I am capable of fabricating variants of them. Yet I’d choose honesty this time: I am cracked empty and the fractures let loose a stream of wordless sounds. This I am neither proud nor ashamed of admitting.
This is a testament that even in irredeemable jadedness I am still capable of being broken.